Lord of Snow and Shadows (48 page)

Cold air was sucked in from outside. Rags and tatters of Lilias’ fine brocade curtains flapped in the wind. Pages from her torn books of verse and philosophy fluttered away into the garden.

Gavril opened his mouth to speak and drew in a lungful of plaster dust.

“The—device—” Choking, he dragged himself from Jaromir on hands and knees.

Jaromir rolled over; plaster dust had powdered his clothes and face. Beyond him lay the Vox Aethyria, its crystal perfection shattered.

“That’s that, then,” he said flatly. A trickle of red blood on the white plaster gave his face the bizarre look of a circus clown’s.

“Must get out,” Gavril managed, wheezing. “Another blast—like the last—and the whole wing will collapse.”

Coughing, they began to crawl toward the door, which gaped open on its hinges.

“If I can—make it through the tunnels,” Jaromir said, “maybe I can reach Eugene—” He broke off. “Listen.”

Gavril listened. His ears were still ringing from the explosions, but there was no sound to be heard.

“The bombardment’s stopped.”

“They’re reloading.”

Jaromir gripped his arm tight. “No. This is different.”

“It’s a trap. To lure us out into the open.”

“Or Velemir’s relayed my message.”

Gavril stared at him, desperately wanting to believe it to be so.

“Let me go out to him, Gavril.”

“No. It’s too dangerous.” They picked their way through the debris brought down in the bombardment, making toward the main entrance.

“What is there to fear? Eugene won’t fire on me.”

“And how will he know it’s you? One man walking out alone from an enemy stronghold.”

“If only that last blast hadn’t shattered the Vox . . .”

They had reached the entrance hall.
Druzhina
crouched beside every window, bows and crossbows trained on the courtyard outside.

“Get down, my lord!” cried one of the men, leaping up to cover him.

“But it’s stopped,” Gavril said, recognizing Askold, Jushko’s younger brother, by his shaven head and single braid.

“For the time being.” Only now Askold noticed that Gavril was not alone. “And who’s this?” he asked suspiciously, leveling his crossbow at Jaromir.

“Our salvation,” Gavril said, gazing round at the faces of his
druzhina,
who were all staring at them both with distrust. He chose his words with care. “This man is to bear a message to Prince Eugene that will save all our lives.”

“We’re not surrendering!” said one. “Not to Tielen.”

“You must hold your fire,” Gavril said, ignoring him, “while my messenger walks over to the Tielen side. No one must fire. Not one single shot. Or all will be lost. Is that understood?”

They nodded sullenly. He could sense their fear and their uncertainty. Lord Volkh, one was sure to say soon, would never have sent a messenger. He would have led the counterattack from the air.

“One of you—Semyon—” Gavril chose the youngest, knowing he would argue less, “relay my orders to all the other posts and watchtowers. They’re to hold their fire. No retaliation. As soon as you return, I’ll know it’s time to proceed.”

“Young Sem’ll be easy pickings for those Tielen marksmen,” grumbled one of the others.

“Then I’ll go myself!”

“No, my lord. You chose me.” Semyon sped away.

Jaromir had been brushing the dust from his clothes. “Well,” he said, suddenly flashing Gavril a grin, “wish me luck.”

Gavril suddenly found himself reaching out, flinging his arms around Jaromir, hugging him as warmly as if he were one of his oldest, dearest friends.

“Take care,” he said. “We’re all depending on you.”

“I know.” Jaromir grasped him by the shoulder and gazed into his eyes. “Trust me.” Then he let Gavril go and, without a backward glance, went out into the courtyard.

“Can we be sure it’s true?”

“Velemir said the message came from within the kastel. They were cut off by what sounded like an explosion.” Anckstrom had just emerged from the communications wagon. He handed Eugene his spyglass.

Eugene scanned the kastel below from watchtower to watchtower. Smoke was billowing from one of the towers. Most of the glass in the windows was gone. Ragged holes gaped in the walls and the roofs.

“It could all be a trick, to give them time to retaliate.”

“And the life flame?” Eugene handed Anckstrom back the spyglass and took the little phial out from within his breast pocket. It glowed darkly in the winter light, red as a flame of blood.

“There’s someone coming out!” Anckstrom tried to adjust the spyglass to get a clearer view. “A man. Alone.” And then he swore. “Deuce take it. Could it be—”

Eugene seized the spyglass again.

“Jaromir,” he whispered. And then he started out down the snowy hill, shouting, “Jaromir!
Jaromir!
”

“For God’s sake, hold your fire!” He dimly heard Anckstrom barking an abrupt order to his officers and men. He saw only the single figure walking calmly, unhurriedly toward the massed ranks of his troops, cannons, mortars, carbines, all leveled at him.

He ran on, down the mud-churned tracks and the rutted, hard-frozen snow toward him. Jaromir stopped, shading his eyes against the brightness of the daylight.

“Eugene?” he said uncertainly.

Eugene reached him at last and awkwardly, fervently, caught him in his arms, hugging him close.

“You’re safe, Jaro,” he said into Jaromir’s bronze-bright hair. “You’re alive.” The words stifled in his throat and he found he was unable to speak for joy. He didn’t care what the army thought of this impulsive, utterly uncharacteristic show of affection. “The flame didn’t lie.”

Holding Jaromir at arm’s length, he scanned his face intently, trying to read every minute change, taking every detail in. Although Jaromir looked fit, weather-burned, Eugene, a seasoned campaigner, saw from the way his right arm hung awkwardly that he had been injured. “What’s happened to your arm? Your hand?” He gently raised Jaromir’s right hand in his own to look more closely. The snowlight showed only too clearly the darkened, burned skin, the clawed fingers. Old injuries, ill-healed.

“Who did this to you?” he said, staring up at the kastel behind him. “By God, I swear they’ll pay dearly for making you suffer. . . .”

“The man who did this to me is dead,” Jaromir said. “I killed him. The debt is paid, Eugene.”

Eugene looked into his eyes and saw that the shadows had gone, finally exorcised. The Jaromir who had left Swanholm a tormented boy had become whole. A man.

“Gavril Nagarian is not like his father. You must believe me. He doesn’t deserve this.” Jaromir gestured to the smoldering kastel behind him. “I want you to promise me that you’ll stop the bombardment, Eugene.”

Must. Want.
There was a new fire in his eyes—and a directness that surprised Eugene.

“And you must order the release of his mother. She is innocent of any crime.”

“Come up to the tent.” Eugene took him by the arm and led him back up the hill, past the cannon emplacements and the waiting, watching soldiers who stared at the two in puzzlement.

“Is Lilias here?” Jaromir asked eagerly, gazing up at the Tielen tents. “Lilias Arbelian?”

“How the devil did you find out we had the Arbelian woman?” Eugene was beginning to realize how little he knew about what had happened to his protégé in the lost months.

“But can I see her? And the child?”

“Jaro.” Eugene stopped, placing both hands on the young man’s shoulders. Such concern for Lilias. Was the child Jaromir’s? He guessed that Jaro would tell him the truth when he felt the time was right. Now was not the moment for probing too deeply. “I left her and her son back at the other camp in the gorge. This is no place for a woman with a baby.”

“Are they safe?” Jaromir’s eyes clouded with concern.

“They’re well-protected, don’t worry.”

They reached the brow of the incline, and Anckstrom strode over to greet them.

“General Anckstrom!” Jaromir said, face creasing into a wide smile.

“Glad to see you safe, lad!” Anckstrom said gruffly. Other officers came crowding up, saluting, shaking hands with Jaromir. Eugene looked on, unable to keep from smiling, overcome by a feeling of ineffable happiness.

“On to Muscobar, eh!” Anckstrom said. “What’s to stop us now?”

“You must free Madame Nagarian first.” Jaromir detached himself from the other young officers and came hurrying back. “You gave your word, Eugene.”

The adjutants and aides standing nearby exchanged shocked glances. Any other young lord speaking so freely to him would have been sharply admonished. But Eugene merely nodded. “See that it’s done, Anckstrom.”

“And Gavril Nagarian?”

Eugene felt an unaccountable uneasiness at the mention of the Drakhaon’s name. Gazing down over the battered kastel, he saw all the signs of defeat. But Linnaius had warned him. The Drakhaons were possessed by a dark and dangerous spirit. There was no proof that Kazimir’s elixir had worked.

“I want you in command here, Jaromir. Not the young Nagarian.”

“He’s no threat. In all truth, Eugene,” and again this new, frank-spoken Jaromir faced him, dark eyes intense, “whatever Linnaius persuaded Kazimir to dose him with has made him very sick. Wouldn’t it have been enough to reduce his powers without resorting to alchymical poisons?”

Eugene stared at him coldly a moment. “Whatever method of treatment was agreed between Linnaius and Doctor Kazimir is no concern of mine. My only concern was that it worked.”

“I gave my word that I would negotiate for a truce. A truce without conditions.”

“But you should be Drakhaon. Or Arkhaon—the old, true title of the rulers of Azhkendir before the Nagarians began their reign of terror.”

Jaromir shook his head. “I don’t want to usurp what is rightfully Gavril’s title. Besides, his
druzhina
will never accept an Arkhel in his place.”

“They will accept what they are told to accept.” For a moment, Eugene was tempted to order the bombardment to begin again. To blast the stubborn Azhkendi into submission.

“A communication from Admiral Janssen!” One of the aides came from the tent, waving a paper.

Eugene took the note from him.

“‘We have Mirom blockaded by land and sea. Minimal resistance encountered so far. Awaiting your instructions.’”

Eugene passed the message to Anckstrom.

“Time to move south, highness?” Anckstrom said, smiling broadly as he read.

“Break the siege!” Eugene said, turning to his officers.

“We should let Lord Gavril know it’s over,” Jaromir said. “If his men see any movement from our forces, they may misinterpret your intentions—”

“Then we’ll send a message via Velemir.” Eugene put one arm around Jaromir’s shoulders, trying to lead him toward the tent. “This calls for a toast. Lars, wine for all my officers! Extra schnapps for the men.”

“The kastel Vox Aethyria is broken,” Jaromir said, standing his ground. “You’d better let me take the news back to Gavril. Then I’ll ride with you to Mirom.”

Gavril. Not Lord Nagarian. There was more here, so much more than he had realized. Eugene let his arm drop from Jaromir’s shoulders. He could see from Jaromir’s determined expression that his ward was not to be dissuaded.

“Go back, then. We’ll drink that toast when you’ve said your farewells.”

At the entrance to the courtyard, Jaromir turned around and lifted his sound arm high to wave. There was so much confidence, so much exuberance in the wave that Eugene found himself smiling broadly as he returned the gesture.

All would be well now. He would ride into Mirom with Jaro at his side.

Kostya slowly came back to his senses. He was lying facedown on his bed. And he was covered in debris: plaster, splintered wood, broken glass. His window had been blown in. And when he tried to raise his head, the sky seemed to implode again. Something—or someone—had hit him with a stunning blow to the back of the head, and now his whole skull throbbed with the pain of it.

Kastel under attack!

He reached out blindly and his hands closed on the shaft of his crossbow.

At least he was still armed. At least he could still do his duty to the Drakhaon.

He checked—yes, there was still one bolt in the bow.
One only. Must find more.
He tried to stand up, but sank back. Something wrong with his eyes. A blackness like a crow’s wing kept flapping into his vision, blocking out half the room.

Have to make do with half-sight, then. It hadn’t stopped Jushko One-Eye.

Crossbow in hand, he fumbled through the debris to the window, sinking to his knees at the sill, peering out at the empty courtyard.

The dazzle of daylight made his aching head swim.

No guns now. No cannon.

All silent.

Cease-fire? Tielen subterfuge? Or surrender? He felt a clawing pain in his chest at the very thought. No surrender.

He propped the crossbow on the window ledge, angling it so that the first Tielen to enter the courtyard from the road would die.

He blinked.

Damn it all, there was one coming now. A man approaching from the enemy lines. The insolence of it, just calmly walking in. What did it mean?

Kostya screwed up his eyes, trying to see more clearly.

And now the damned Tielen was turning to give a signal to the others. A single wave of the hand. It could only mean one thing.

Attack.

A ray of winter sunlight suddenly illuminated the intruder.

That color of hair. Bronzed gold. Arkhel gold. Cursed Arkhel gold.

“Stavyor Arkhel!” Kostya reared up with the last of his strength, crossbow aimed. “Now it is your turn!”

The golden-haired Arkhel heard him shout, turned back, a look of puzzlement on his face.

Kostya squeezed the lever. The lethal metal bolt flew—its aim true—and hit its target.

Stavyor Arkhel clutched at his chest, stumbled, and crashed to the ground.

“Yes!” Kostya shouted, fist raised in a gesture of triumph.

Winter sunlight suddenly flooded from a fissure in the clouds—and Jaromir was bathed in its glow of gold.